


Beyond All Sense and Reason

by vienn_peridot



Series: Noster Nostri, Quis Separabit? [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Attraction, Bad Decisions, Cross-faction relationship, Dubious Morality, Feels, Frottage, I think?, Implied/Referenced Deepthroat, Kissing, Making Out, Masochism, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Neck Kissing, Oral Sex, Other, Repaying Debt, Romance, Rough Kissing, Smut, Soulmates, Spark Resonance, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, War, Whatever you call it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 08:20:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11100645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vienn_peridot/pseuds/vienn_peridot
Summary: A separate set of rules seemed to govern these stolen pockets of time.Something neither of them were going to question.





	Beyond All Sense and Reason

**Author's Note:**

> Life is pretty shit right now so I wrote something self-indulgent

The first time it happened was in the middle of a battle.

Ratchet’s team was distracted, separated from the main forces and trying to scout a path back. He was elbow-deep in emergency repairs on an injured mech when he heard the whistle of an incoming mortar too late. Then someone was knocking him to the ground, getting between him and the explosion, using their own frame to shelter him from the shrapnel. The blast wave ripped his patient away, lifesign readings on Ratchet’s HUD flickering out as debris tore into exposed internals.

It was the last image Ratchet’s optics recorded before the effects of the shell scrambled his neural systems.

When his senses cleared he squirmed, testing his limbs and finding them all attached, internal readings only showing mild concussive trauma despite the strange way his spark rolled and lurched against protective crystal. Judging he had just enough space to roll over, Ratchet did so.

When he did he looked up, shocked to see deep garnet-red optics in an eerily familiar face. Deadlock was braced above him, having used his body to shield Ratchet from the explosion.

To stunned to speak, Ratchet cycled his optics as Deadlock smirked down at him.

“Hey Doc, ‘sup?” The Decepticon’s voice was the same low pitch Ratchet remembered, the Rodion street-drawl now sharpened by Kaonite inflections.

Then Deadlock kissed him.

Ratchet froze as rough, warm lipplates laid claim to his own, engine revving in startled response to a gentle nip.

Suddenly he was kissing back, sanity gone flying out the window, earning a throaty moan and hard rev of appreciation from a powerful speedster-type engine. Deadlock licked across Ratchet’s lips and he took the hint willingly, bringing glossa into play as the dust began to settle around them. Gentle nips dragged more appreciative sounds from both mecha as they traded the lead, cooling fans engaging to fill the tiny pocket of space around them with heat dumped from aroused frames.

Deadlock pulled back, optics wide and bright and a strange, wild expression on his faceplates as Ratchet struggled to get his processors to function.

“Time for me t’ go.” The Decepticon murmured, pushing himself up and away. Debris slithered from Deadlock’s frame as he stood, pattering to the ground; for a moment he looked like something ancient reborn. Deep red optics burned into Ratchet. “See ya ‘round.”

Then he was gone, transforming despite his injuries and tearing away over the battlefield.

Autobot comm frequencies burst back into life, Ratchet answering absent-mindedly as his audials focused on the muted roar of Deadlock’s engine fading into the distance.

_What the_ slag _just happened?_

## ~V~V~V~

 

The second time was an ambush.

Ratchet was sitting on the outskirts of an Autobot encampment, seeking what solitude he could find while staying within the patrol perimeter.

Yet another skirmish, yet another flood of casualties and the inevitable fatalities; the sparks he couldn’t save weighing on him. He needed peace and quiet, the dim stars overhead and the burn of carefully hoarded highgrade on his glossa to pull himself together.

It would be bad for morale for the other medics and soldiers to see him go to pieces under the strain of being a sparked and forged _healer_ in the middle of a war.

Pedesteps approached him from behind and to the left; from the direction of the camp. Ratchet sighed and rubbed his chevron mount, expecting someone here to herd him back to the medical tents before he fell victim to an opportunistic sniper.

“Hey Doc, ‘sup?”

The same words, same voice and accent as the last time he’d heard them.

Whipping around, Ratchet stared in shock as a dark shape detached itself from the shadows, taking on Deadlock’s distinctive outlines as it moved closer. Garnet optics flickered, powering up in the dark. The memories involved by that phrase, that tone, of the last time he’d seen deadlock was enough to send warm tingles through Ratchet’s systems. Guilt followed quickly in the tracks of that warmth, although not quite enough to douse it entirely.

“Rough day?” The Decepticon asked conversationally, approaching with confident strides until he was within arms’ reach and squatting down comfortably, unperturbed beside the medic.

As easy as you please, just as casual as if he wasn’t behind enemy lines and they were instead meeting in some local pub before the war.

Ratchet wasn’t inebriated by any means, but he had just enough highgrade in his systems to combine with his current state of absolute exhaustion to find the situation mildly funny. He snorted, taking a long swallow from his cube before answering.

“You here to kill me, kid?” Ratchet met Deadlock’s optics levelly, ignoring the flash of pain in his spark at the thought. “Because I’m not quite tired enough to go down without a fight.”

“Not here to kill you.” Deadlock leaned closer, optics intent on Ratchet’s face as he used one hand to brace himself against the ground. The other hand rose, gentle claws skimming along Ratchet’s jawline, urging him forward. “I’m here _for_ _you_.”

The last words were whispered against Ratchet’s lips before they crashed together.

Once again all logic vanished the instant Deadlock kissed him.

Ratchet _knew_ he shouldn’t be doing this. Even as he reached for Deadlock’s thick, scarred armour his conscience was screaming at him. Deadlock was a _Deception_ , the _enemy_. Ratchet should be raising the alarm, not deepening the kiss. The patrols knew he was out here, knew where he was. He could expiate so many of his own sins and failures by pulling away, raising the alarm and giving Deadlock into Autobot hands. That part was small; the larger part of him hungered, craved the closeness and raw, physical affirmation of _life_ after seeing so much death and destruction.

Desire rose, a roaring inferno that crashed through him, banishing all other concerns except for that need to _feel_ , the hunger for _more_. So instead of pulling away he pushed closer, devouring the sounds Deadlock made, melting in turn under the skilled and effortless authority in that kiss. His hands wandered, exploring heavy armour while Deadlock’s engine revved.

The voice of reason shrank, fading before the aching emptiness inside him that longed for a reminder that there was more to life beyond the war, that there was some other purpose to his existence beyond fighting the endless parade of near-corpses that appeared before him day after day.

Something of this must have communicated itself to Deadlock, or else the Decepticon was feeling something of the same because the next thing Ratchet knew he was being pulled forwards and up, into Deadlock’s lap with his knees spread wide by powerful thighs. A strong hand tugged on his helm, pulled his head down into the warmth of a neck while the other wrapped around his waist, supporting and steadying him.

“Hey Doc; ‘s alright.” Deadlock murmured, low and rough in Ratchet’s audial while claws ran lightly over Ratchet’s helm. “I got ya. ‘S alright.”

It was only when he shivered at the sound of Deadlock’s voice so close that Ratchet realised he was shaking. He clung to the speedster, pressing chestplate to chestplate as his spark tumbled out of control.

“Slagging… _idiot_.” Ratchet growled into Deadlock’s neck cables.

He wasn’t sure if it was aimed at Deadlock or himself but that low, rich laugh right in his audial reignited the fire that had almost consumed him. A retaliatory bite at Decepticon neck cables dragged a throaty moan of appreciation from the mech beneath him as Ratchet resumed his explorations, sucking and nipping at the cables exposed when Deadlock tilted his helm to give him access, careless of any marks he’d leave.

_Let them see. I don’t slagging care what ‘Cons think._

Sharp claws slipped into his seams, between armour plating, teasing sensors rarely touched and setting Ratchet’s engine to purring with renewed arousal. Deadlock moaned into Ratchet’s shoulder armour, hips shifting as the medic found _that point there_ where several large neural bundles joined, latched on and sucked _hard_.

Deadlock’s engine stalled, dropped gears and _roared_.

Ratchet let go, arching his back and gasping brokenly as the powerful performance engine sent delicious vibrations through every strut and cable in his frame. A firm hand on the back of his helm guided him back towards Deadlock’s mouth and they were kissing again, Ratchet rolling his hips, seeking more sensation in the friction of armour against armour, the tingle of rising charge zapping between their frames.

Sharp fangs punctured his lower lip as Deadlock delivered a particularly sharp nip. The sensuous hum as the Decepticon slowly licked the wound was obscenely arousing, Ratchet’s pelvic armour transforming aside without a thought. A careful digit circled the thin inner cover of his spike sheath, offering. Somewhere over the metal-on-metal rasp of their entwined frames, revving engines and their low sounds of pleasure Ratchet heard the transformation sounds signalling that some piece of the Decepticon’s armour was moving.

With a mental shrug Ratchet allowed his frame to do as it wished, his spike extending to brush against Deadlock’s already pressurised length. A full-frame jolt of surprise was all he was allowed before one arm wrapped around him in a viselike hold; hand on his waist holding him still. The other took his spike in a gentle grip, pressing the base of his shaft against Deadlock’s.

A low moan of bliss shivered up out of Ratchet’s vocaliser as he realised what Deadlock had planned. His helm dropped, chevron resting against the Decepticon’s forehead sensor as he stared blankly into lust-hazed garnet optics. One single breathless moment, a slag-eating smirk and Deadlock’s hand began to move.

The first stroke stole all coherent thought from Ratchet.

The second took all strength from his frame.

By the third all he could do was _feel_.

Wrecked and gasping for air he sought Deadlock’s mouth, needing something, _anything_ to ground him in the face of the pleasure surging through him. Finesse was no longer something he possessed, but Deadlock didn’t seem to mind. The Decepticon continued to lick and suck at Ratchet’s mouth as he worked their spikes with slow, steady pulls. His grip was firm, warm, with just the right roll of his wrist to build their pleasure steadily towards overload.

Too soon Ratchet was quaking and gasping on the cusp of release, wordlessly begging Deadlock for _more, please_ and _no_ _not yet_. The Decepticon had the absolute gall to chuckle as he did _something_ with the pads of his his fingers along the nodes of Ratchet’s spike on his next pass, pulling the medic into another crushing kiss as overload ripped through Ratchet and stripped him dry.

No sound emerged from Ratchet’s vocaliser as he shook and spilled over Deadlock’s fist. Seconds later a low hum emerged from the Decepticon’s vocaliser as he met his own peak.

Something warm and wet splattered against Ratchet’s abdomen and he glanced down to see long, clean lines of silver over both their bellies.

_His on me… and mine on him._

It could only have been deliberate.

Ratchet looked up, wondering, meeting thoughtful garnet optics that smouldered in the night.

## ~V~V~V~

 

The third time Deadlock found him Ratchet almost wasn’t surprised.

It was during a firefight in a ruined urban landscape; sprinting down alleys and ducking into blown-out storefronts in a desperate attempt to outpace the fast-encroaching foe. He was lagging, built for endurance but not the same top speed of his frontliner teammates. The commlines were a mess of static and garbled shouts, the constant explosions and bursts of blasterfire meant everyone had their audials dialled down or shut off entirely.

Nobody would notice him missing for a while. Doubling back to search would be too dangerous for several hours, even though he was the CMO, even if the ‘Cons didn’t manage to take and hold this section of what once had been the soaring heights of central Nyon.

_I’m slagged._

Several long minutes after he last saw the red flash of Cliffjumper’s armour ahead of him Ratchet knew it was time to hunker down and wait for things to quiet down enough for Ops to extract him.

They had lingered just a little too long; he was just a little too slow to keep up with agile minibots and speedster-framed frontliners. Catching up would be futile and despite the urge to keep running he knew that doing so was to invite death. Medics were already a valuable commodity to both factions; there were good odds that if the Decepticons found him before Autobot Ops did they would take him hostage and attempt to ransom or turn him instead of executing him out of hand.

With that in mind Ratchet worked his way deeper into the next stable-looking building he came across, searching for a secure hiding place.

The clatter of dislodged –or deliberately dropped- rubble right behind him triggered well-honed reflexes. Before the echoes could die away he was spinning on his heel, blaster out and rising to aim at the shape behind him. Dim glow of biolights and optics in a familiar shade of garnet stopped him, dropped the muzzle of his modified blaster from the kill-shot.

“Hey, Doc.” Deadlock’s low voice rolled through the room, easily heard even with the sounds of blasterfire and exploding mortars barely muffled by walls and distance. “How’s it?”

Ratchet sighed, lowering his blaster to point at the floor. He was tired; his processors spinning, spark churning at the speedster’s proximity.

“You tell me, kid.” He said heavily. One hand left the handle of his blaster, rising to scrub at his faceplates. “If you want a hostage I’ll go quietly. Too tired to put up much of a fight.”

“What if I don’t want a hostage?” Deadlock purred.

Close, he was too close. Hot vents gusting over his armour, devious smirk with a hint of fang at the side. Ratchet’s blaster was plucked from his hands. He backed up, Deadlock pursuing him until his backplates pressed against a wall.

The blaster was returned, stuck low on his thigh with magnetic clips. Garnet optics bored into Ratchet, intent and predatory. Slow heat coiled low in Ratchet’s belly, his frame warming in reaction to Deadlock’s proximity.

“What _do_ you want, then?”

Ratchet’s vocaliser betrayed him, the words emerging rough and tinged with something that could almost be hope as Deadlock leaned in, a sly sideways glance from deep red optics as he rose on the toepieces of his pedes to get his mouth near Ratchet’s audial.

“ _You_.”

One word growled into his audial, threat and promise and claim wrapped up in that single syllable to set his frame afire and weaken his knees to the point where he would have fallen if he hadn’t already been leaning against the wall. Energon thundered through his lines, fans clicking audibly before whirring on to their highest setting.

Ratchet swore he could _hear_ Deadlock smirking.

Gentle claws ghosted up Ratchet’s thighs, skipping abdomen and torso entirely. Hard warriors’ hands cupped his face, pulling him into another of Deadlock’s reality-bending, restraint -shattering kisses.

A desire he had been denying crashed through Ratchet’s systems once again, hands moving of their own volition to stroke the Decepticon’s armour and pull Deadlock against him with a satisfying _scrape_ of chestplates. Deadlock growled, rubbing the full length of his frame against Ratchet, driving him mad with delicious friction that wasn’t quite enough to swap enamel.

Finding sensitive places he remembered clearly from last time, Ratchet turned the growl into a moan of lust, answering it with his own as Deadlock’s hands _finally_ left his faceplate and roamed over his frame. All awareness of the world outside the room faded, the only thing that mattered was right here; all exploring hands and revving engine and rough sounds of pleasure, hot frame pressing so close to his it was almost as if Deadlock was trying to merge them into one being.

_Two-as-one…_

The thought stole the ground out from under Ratchet’s pedes and once again he would have fallen if Deadlock hadn’t been holding him up. Dizzy and desperate he whined, chasing Deadlock’s mouth as the Decepticon pulled away, panting harshly.

“Wanna suck you off.” The feral, lust-filled growl all but boiled the energon in Ratchet’s lines. A hand covered his pelvic armour, gentle claws skating easily over the surface. “Right here, right now. Wanna feel you overload down my throat.”

Ratchet’s frame answered for him.

His armour melted away to bare his slick inner covers –both of them- to Deadlock. That maddening hand remained motionless while Ratchet grabbed the Decepticon’s helm in both hands, kissing him so hard that damage warnings popped up as he bruised his lipplates. Deadlock shivered against him, engine revving as Ratchet’s inner covers slid open to allow his spike to pressurise, hot and hard, against the battle-roughened hand.

“All yours.” Ratchet whispered, heedless of his subglyphs as his spark spun and tripped strangely in his chassis.

Something like awe flickered across Deadlock’s faceplates before he knelt, hand sliding smoothly in the gathered lubricant of Ratchet’s arousal to grip the medic’s spike.

Warm wetness enclosed the tip of Ratchet’s spike, sensor nodes flaring in a lightning storm as Deadlock moaned. Glossa and lips worshipped every micrometer of Ratchet’s spike, Deadlock appearing to savour his actions as much as Ratchet’s reactions as he worked his way down to the base. Then he drew off, licked his lipplates and paused for the briefest moment, humming thoughtfully.

Before Ratchet could find where his language modules had got to Deadlock leaned in and placed an almost delicate kiss to the tip of his spike, then proceeded to turn the universe inside-out and upside down as he employed almost otherworldly skill to transform Ratchet into an inferno of desperate pleasure and all-consuming _need_. His optical feed fritzed, losing focus and colour before shutting down entirely. Whatever was coming from his vocaliser couldn’t have been coherent but it seemed to encourage Deadlock to greater efforts.

Seeking to ground himself, to find some anchor to grasp in the face of the sensations Deadlock was causing, Ratchet reached out, hands finding the smooth rounded curve of a helm. He stroked it, running thumbs along the crest and fighting the urge to grab it, hold the maddeningly talented Decepticon still and drive into his warm, wet mouth.

Gradually Deadlock settled into a rhythm, just enough for Ratchet to get control over his optical systems again and re-enter the visual world. What he saw when he looked down was almost too much, almost enough to make him shut visual input down again in self-defence against the heat surging through his frame.

Deadlock kneeling at his pedes, one hand braced on Ratchet’s thigh for balance, the other out of sight somewhere lower down. Garnet optics were dimmed with concentration, armour flared to dump heat, frame twitching and shivering in reaction to every low groan and louder moan he pulled from the medic. In the soft glow of his own biolights Ratchet could see the surprisingly serene, almost exultant expression on Deadlock’s faceplates as he worked over the nodes of Ratchet’s spike.

It was something he burned into his memory banks without a second thought.

The odd motion of Deadlock’s shoulder eventually filtered through Ratchet’s lust-fogged processors, connecting with a probable cause. Despite the protests of his spike he gently nudged Deadlock back, looking down.

Garnet optics _burned_ , glowing brightly enough to reflect from his lubricant-slicked spike as Ratchet got his first proper look at Deadlock’s spike. Or more accurately: what he could see of Deadlock’s spike around the black-plated hand working energetically over the shaft.

It was one of the most perversely arousing things Ratchet had ever seen, drawing him right up to the precipice of overload.

Somehow divining how close Ratchet was, the Decepticon growled. Deadlock’s hand sped up before it was once again blocked from view by the top of his helm. Ratchet felt wet heat once more engulf the head of his spike, then Deadlock sucked _hard_ and his world dissolved into static as he overloaded into the Decepticon’s mouth, Deadlock’s name on his lips, hunching forward over the kneeling mech as his nanite tanks emptied in a series of hot spurts.

A rich moan rose from Deadlock, his engine purring as he swallowed and shivered. Wet splashing and the distinctive scent of ozone and hot cybertronium signalled his own release, overloading on the floor between Ratchet’s pedes.

When Ratchet could stand he straightened up, gazing blearily down at the satisfied-looking speedster. Deadlock was purring, licking the last traces of Ratchet’s overload from his lips, fangs glinting in the glow of their biolights as a long glossa chased a stray trickle of silver down his chin.

Swallowing a moan, Ratchet forced himself to look away before he gave in to the temptation to do something even more stupid than what they’d already done. His hands ached and he finally noticed just how hard he was gripping Deadlock’s pauldrons –not that the Decepticon seemed to mind.

When he pried his fingers free Ratchet discovered that he’d left dents in those pauldrons; obvious finger-marks that could only have been made in one position. Deadlock hummed as he brushed at them, a distinctly satisfied sound.

“I’ll wear those with pride.” He said, once again giving Ratchet that dangerously playful smirk with its hint of fang, reminding Ratchet of the long-faded bitemark that once decorated his own lips.

Unable to find words, Ratchet hauled the speedster up and kissed him hard. He tasted himself on Deadlock’s lips and moaned. The sound was answered as Deadlock kissed back, clinging to him as if his gyros had just failed.

When they parted Ratchet felt the tugging sensation in his spark and it was then he knew that he was in trouble.

From the look on Deadlock’s face he felt it too.

The Decepticon maintained optic contact as he slid Ratchet’s armour closed with gentle fingers. Then he took a step backwards. Another. Three steps, all with that same unwontedly serious expression and garnet optics burning into Ratchet’s very soul.

Spinning on his heel Deadlock tore his optics away, the shock of it like a physical blow as he hurried off. Dimly Ratchet heard others enter the building, harsh Decepticon accents rising in conversation as Deadlock intercepted the group.

“Building’s clean; we push on.” Deadlock’s voice came through clearly despite the ringing in Ratchet’s audials. “Let’s see if we can catch any stragglers.”

 

## ~V~V~V~

 

By now Ratchet had come to expect that Deadlock would periodically seek him out, often during stupid or dangerous situations. Sometimes he’d entertain himself by trying to figure out which kind of wildly questionable place it would be next time.

This, however, was one that had never even crossed his mind.

They were months away from any known Decepticon outposts, even further still from any quadrant in which enemy activity had been reported in the last decade. Taking an ancient space station out of mothballs and repurposing it as a military base wasn’t Ratchet’s favourite activity, but it was a much-needed respite during a lull in hostilities. He was with less than a handful of mechs, all of them hardened warriors by now but still retaining the knowledge and skillsets from pre-war lives required to bring the creaking old station back to life.

For some reason he couldn’t explain, Ratchet had saved the Medbay for last on his personal task list. It might have been the irrational creeping fear that despite this place being unused for centuries the battlefront might have somehow followed him to fill the place with mangled and dying mechs.

When he finally opened the door the medbay was blessedly silent, the only thing out of place being a fine layer of dust over everything. Instead of stirring it up, Ratchet programmed and released several small cleaning drones and shut them in, leaving to seek out fuel and somewhere to nap before his work could begin.

Early in the evening he returned, the rest of the team already deep in recharge elsewhere on the station. Ignoring the inexplicable jigging of his spark he rounded up the cleaning drones and turned to inspect their work. Pedesteps sounded behind him, his spark fluttering harder and then that voice again, that rich mixture of Rodion and Kaonite inflexions rumbling into the night-time silence of the disused Medbay.

“Hey, Doc.” Deadlock purred. “You’re workin’ late this evenin’.”

Spinning to face the intruder, Ratchet had a weapon in his hand and spent the split-second it took to draw a bead on the Decepticon’s spark and accessing base communications.

When he saw Deadlock leaning casually against one of the circuit slabs with a fond little smile on his faceplates and a stray cleaning drone cradled in his arms like a pet cyberkitten, Ratchet let his weapon drop.

“Everyone else on this boat is sleepin’.” Deadlock observed, setting the cleaning drone down on the slab beside him and raising a brow at the medic.

The unspoken message was clear; Deadlock was alone.

The unspoken question was even clearer: _Why_ wasn’t Ratchet recharging like the rest of the Autobots?

Despite the guilt gnawing at him Ratchet slowly closed his link to base comms. The thumping of distant mortars echoed in his audials, the memory of Deadlock’s words in Nyon rising to choke him with the bitter knowledge that he _owed_ the speedster at least this one.

It was also a relief. The decision to leave the team ignorant of Deadlock’s presence wasn’t _entirely_ his to make. Those kinds of debts were still widely understood, although to his knowledge they’d never came before faction loyalty like this.

_Prowl would have an absolute field day with this…_

“I got a couple hours in while the drones took the dust off this place.” Ratchet disabled his weapon with slow, deliberate movements before stowing it in subspace. “So what’s _your_ excuse, kid?”

Crossing his arms over his chestplate, Ratchet leaned back against the wall and didn’t bother hiding his grin at Deadlock’s low laughter. The sound rolled through Ratchet’s frame, warming his spark and setting him at ease despite the Decepticon now prowling towards him, slinking across the empty Medbay to stop half a step from where he leaned against the wall.

“ _My_ _excuse?_ ” Deadlock tried –and failed- to mimic Ratchet’s accent. It made him sound more adorable than he had any right to. “I just wanted to see you. ‘S all.”

Heavy pauldrons rose in a shrug, something almost hesitant about the way those garnet optics looked up at Ratchet from beneath a grey forehelm wrapped barbed wire and fuzzy warmth around the medic’s spark. His hand rose without permission, sliding along Deadlock’s jaw and gently encouraging the speedster to _look up, look at me_.

“Here I am.” He said, feeling Deadlock’s shiver through the sensors of his palm, watching audials twitch minutely to catch the low timbre of his voice.

And then, because sanity had never applied when they were this close, Ratchet lowered his helm and kissed the mouth that still haunted his dreams.

Heat ignited in a flashfire through his frame, spreading from every point of contact as Deadlock groaned and rose on pedetips to press their chestplates together. Claws scraped over armour as Deadlock all but climbed his frame. Their engines revved in harmony, echoing through the empty Medbay.

A plan half-formed rose in Ratchet’s processor and he grinned as he pulled away from that too-tempting mouth, nipping Deadlock’s bottom lip as he picked the heavily-armoured speedster up with easy strength. Not fazed for a moment, Deadlock wrapped his legs around Ratchet’s waist and shifted to kissing his way along neck cables as he let himself be carried. The pressure of hot metal against his pelvic armour brought the low drone of their cooling fans to Ratchet’s attention as he took careful steps on weak and wobbly knees, trying valiantly to stay upright long enough to reach the head medic’s office.

He succeeded despite Deadlock’s best efforts. Succeeded despite the claws teasing dorsal transformation seams and the positively sinful things Deadlock’s mouth was doing to the neural lines of his neck.

“ _Down_.” Ratchet growled; the voice of command and pure lust that shouldn’t have gotten the instant and unquestioning obedience it did.

But obey Deadlock did, releasing his monkeylike grip and allowing Ratchet to deposit the Decepticon in what would be _his_ office chair after the recommission was finished. A frown of confusion flashed across Deadlock’s faceplates as he registered the change in positions. Ratchet knelt smoothly between spread thighs, reached up and pulled the mech down to kiss the frown away, to kiss Deadlock until their lips were bruised and furnace heat poured from their frames.

“My turn to taste you.” He tried to make it an offer but it still emerged as a demand, as entreaty, as a plea for mercy.

It had been _too long_.

Too long since their last tryst, too long since Nyon, too long dallying with others and wondering in the back of his mind how Deadlock would react to _this_ flick of the glossa or having his nodes stimulated in _that_ sequence. Too long trying to imagine what the mech would taste and feel like overloading on his face or in his mouth, on his fingers or with hardline cables connected so Ratchet could stimulate his neural net directly, bringing him one of the purest forms of bliss known to Cybertronians.

“Oh slag yes, Doc.” Deadlock hissed, claws scratching against the scuffed enamel of Ratchets’ helm, dragging him back for greedy kisses spiced with sharp little nips of his fangs. “ _Please_.”

By the time the Decepticon was ready to release him Ratchet could feel his own pelvic armour opening, triggered by anticipatory lust. His mouth watered as he contemplated what he was about to do.

_Gonna savour this…_

Slowly Ratchet worked his way down Deadlock’s frame; kissing and licking and sucking to provoke a glorious symphony of sounds. Ones he could happily listen to for the rest of his life; ones he could happily die while listening to.

Deadlock’s frame had been modified a couple of times since the last time he’d sought Ratchet out. Places that had gotten reactions before were now inert, while some new areas of delight had opened to him. While his mouth was occupied Ratchet let his hands explore the Decepticon’s tough, battle-grade armour. There was new damage, scars and weld seams that stood out beneath his fingers like mountain ranges. Tales of combat and damage, whispering stories of new injuries that didn’t quite match what would have been picked up in battle.

By the time he was ready to focus on Deadlock’s array the speedster’s claws were buried in the arms of Ratchet’s soon-to-be office chair. His fans were on high, mouth open on an endless stream of low, wordless sounds of pleasure. The powerful thrum of his engine had Ratchet shifting, squirming on his knees before Deadlock as his own valve and spike ached for attention.

Right now it was nothing but an annoyance, a distraction from his self-appointed task of bringing Deadlock to one of the best overloads of his entire functioning. Ratchet wanted – _needed_ \- to be the centre of the Decepticon’s entire universe before he even touched that modded and decorated spike.

It didn’t take anywhere near as long as he’d expected it to; Deadlock was hyperfocused on his every move, sprawled loose and pliant in the chair, engine rolling in a loud purr as he waited to see what Ratchet would do next. Half-lidded optics blazed garnet fire down at Ratchet as he looked Deadlock straight in the optic and finally, _finally_ tasted the spike that had haunted his fantasies since Nyon.

A long, shuddering sound of bliss broke from Deadlock’s vocaliser, rising in volume as Ratchet worked him over. He made completely shameless use of his anatomy knowledge to drive the Decepticon right up to the edge of overload and ease him away, over and over and over.

_Need him to remember this, remember me._ Need _him to…_

Eventually Ratchet was forced to peel a hand from one strong black thigh to deal with his own needy interfacing hardware. Bypassing his own spike, he slid two fingers into his valve without preamble, his relieved moan muffled by the spike in his mouth. The wet sounds of his masturbating were easily covered by other, louder noises coming from Deadlock as Ratchet renewed the pleasurable assault on his frame, worshipping the Decepticon with lips and glossa as if doing so was the sole purpose of his existence.

It didn’t take long after that; both of them too hungry and too long denied. Deadlock’s hips jerked, engine roaring as he flooded Ratchet’s mouth with the hot, sharp flavour of overload. The charge flooding down his throat was too much for Ratchet and he peaked with a moan, optics slipping closed as he shuddered, wracked with bliss. A feedback loop established itself between their frames and whiteout haze claimed him, washing Ratchet into a world that consisted of pleasure and the sound and smell of Deadlock overloading.

A soft touch to his helm, deft claws rubbing at itchy seams dragged Ratchet back to reality. He was on his knees on the floor, one sticky hand dangling between his spread legs. His helm was resting on Deadlock’s thigh as the Decepticon petted him.

When Ratchet looked up the tender expression he saw aimed at him nearly undid him then and there; it matched the emotion consuming his own spark.

 

## ~V~V~V~

 

Ratchet folded down into altmode and gunned it, laying trails of rubber as he tore away from Medbay.

Emergency lighting spurred him onwards, sirens screamed through the base and he fought the urge to add his own to the earsplitting din. It would have been an outlet, voice and form for the terror pouring through his frame. It would also have been a waste of precious energy, deadly if the enemy had already breached the base.

_I took too long... but someone needed to wipe the mainframe…_

There was only one escape pod left.

Ratchet flung himself inside, crashing into the seat and activating the eject sequence before he was even fully inside–or fully transformed. His armour was only just beginning to settle into place as the pod sealed, as the rockets engaged and blew him away from the base.

The sudden acceleration smashed into Ratchet, pressing him into the seat. It ripped through the atoms of his still-transforming frame and slammed him screaming down into darkness.

When he awoke it was to the phantom pain and grogginess of having worked too long and too hard, without the dull burn in his processors and tool mounts that usually accompanied the feeling. Someone was plugged into his systems, running a bootleg and thoroughly illegal monitoring program.

Well, it _would_ have been illegal had there still been a _Quorate Medicus_ to dictate and enforce such things.

A groan worked its way up from deep within Ratchet’s chassis, somehow expressing everything he felt and thought about the current situation with one long, disgusted roll of sound.

“Doc?”

That one word in a too-familiar voice, disbelieving cautiously hopeful, sent a high-voltage burst through Ratchet’s neural circuitry. Unfortunately it didn’t help him boot up any faster so he groaned again in complaint at his systems’ sluggish response.

“Hang on Doc, this might take a minute.” The words were low and rough, relief saturating them. “You looked pretty rough when I found you; must have gone down hard.”

By the time Ratchet finished booting and his optics _finally_ came online he wasn’t surprised to find Deadlock hovering over him. However he _was_ surprised to see the naked worry on the Decepticon’s face, the deep lines on fatigue carved into soft dermal metal, a hardline cable extending between them that plugged into thoracic ports.

_Hardline… slag._

Worry surged and faded as fast as it came as Ratchet noted the gauge of the cable; too slim and fragile for the bandwidth required for a good, hard hack. His firewalls showed no sign of having been forced. He was safe. A wry smile flickered over Deadlock’s tired face, the ‘Con having seen where Ratchet was looking and divined his concerns.

“Couldn’t just leave you like that, Doc.” He murmured in that Kaonite-edged Rodion drawl. “Needed t’ know you were ok.”

“Cool your afterburners, kid.” Ratchet’s voice rasped like a file over a rough weld. “I’m alive. Gimmie an hour or two ‘fore I can say if I’m kicking, though.”

That startled a laugh from Deadlock; a laugh that choked off on a sound that was suspiciously close to a sob. Garnet optics burned brightly, shining off sharp cheekstruts as Deadlock stared down at him, his expression defying description.

_… but Decepticons don’t cry._

“You’re alive, Ratchet.” Deadlock said, relief saturating his glyphs. “You’re alive.” He repeated himself, a disbelieving whisper. “You’re _alive_.”

It was the first time he could recall Deadlock actually using his designation.

“Pretty sure being dead wouldn’t feel this slagging awful, kid.” Ratchet tried to joke, but the rasping of his abused vocaliser thwarted him.

It seemed to jolt Deadlock from whatever quiet place of shock he was currently inhabiting. With practiced, businesslike motions he pulled a field kit one-handed from his subspace, retrieved something easily recognisable as an analgesic shot and administered it to Ratchet. It took effect immediately, spreading blessed, welcome coolness through all the places in Ratchet’s frame that still ached and burned.

Without the pain to keep him alert consciousness also started to ebb. Ratchet fought it, clinging desperately to awareness. He didn’t know where he was or how much danger he was in. If Deadlock was alone, or who was in command of this ship or base or-

“Relax, Doc.” Deadlock murmured, one hand rising to stroke Ratchet’s faceplates and chevron mount soothingly. “You’re safe here; it’s just us. Nobody’s gonna jump you while you’re out, I swear on my spark.”

Deadlock’s words were more comforting than they should have been.

Secure in that promise, the touch on his cheek and the presence of (bootleg) monitoring software running on the other side of the hardline Ratchet let unconsciousness claim him.

The next time consciousness didn’t come with quite so much difficulty.

It still felt like he’d sprained every mechanism in his frame, but the ache felt days old instead of mere hours. Optical systems booted slowly, showing him the dim lights of off-shift. It was soothing, evoking a feeling of calm after the shrieking strobe-lit horror of his flight through the base.

Awareness grew, cataloguing sensations.

A firm surface beneath his backplates; slightly softer than the berths he was used to. Solidity close to his helm and pedes, as if he just barely fit into the length of this recharge space. His tanks –fuel, coolant and oil- were about half-full, with indicators of having been externally topped at least once while he was out.

The hardline was still connected, bootleg medical software pulsing idly in a passive monitoring sequence. His optics focused on the hardline cable plugged into his thoracic ports, tracing it over his torso and off to the side where powerful pauldrons and sharply pointed audial flares stood out sharply against dim interior lighting.

_Who?_

Memory returned, answering the first question but not the ones that followed.

_… Why?_

Reaching out despite the wat his frame ached and protested, Ratchet’s fingers encountered metal, brushing the warm solidity of a helm crest.

He repeated the motion; soothing himself with the act of touch. He felt pressure; Deadlock’s helm pressing up into his hand as the Decepticon sighed and shifted. The frame-sounds coming from him remained in recharge ranges, even as distinct purring rose from a high-performance engine. Ratchet’s spark flipped over as he continued to pet; sliding his fingers over rough, recently chipped enamel. The speedster stayed slumped against the low berth, slowly cycling up from recharge beneath his hand.

“ _Hhmmmmmmmm_.” A soft sound of pleasure signalled Deadlock’s return to consciousness. The bootleg monitoring program flared into life, pinging his systems for a response as Deadlock raised his helm and focused dim optics on Ratchet. “You’re ‘wake. How you feelin’ Doc?”

It took a while for Ratchet to find an answer. It was hard to focus with Deadlock so close and everything so quiet and still around them, with nothing to distract him from the Decepticon’s presence.

“Better.” He rasped through an uncooperative vocaliser; self-repair was still prioritising other systems. “But if you’re after a decent fight I’ll need about a week.”

Deadlock rose to his knees, putting their helms on the same level. His level stare froze Ratchet in place, stopped the air in his vents.

“Don’t want a fight.” Deadlock murmured, reaching out to trace the line of Ratchet’s browridge, down his cheekstrut, along his jaw as he leaned closer. “Want you saf-”

Ratchet wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ let him finish that sentence.

When Deadlock was close enough, chinpiece rising as he aimed a kiss at the central mount of Ratchet’s chevron, the medic forced his aching frame into motion and stole that kiss for himself, getting Deadlock’s lips where he had wanted them for longer than he wanted to admit.

A sigh of mingled amusement and defeat rose from Deadlock as he conceded without protest, his usual aggression tempered by relief and something else Ratchet didn’t want to examine too closely. Time stretched and spun, forgotten and meaningless as fingers entwined and their frames heated slowly.

“You’re _alive_.” Deadlock whispered against his lips, spark-breaking relief in his voice, the disbelief of one who had hoped against hope clear in his subglyphs. “Thank Primus; you’re _alive_.”

“Not going anywhere in a hurry.” Ratchet murmured as Deadlock pressed his faceplates into the cables of his neck, warm exhalations tingling against his protoform. “Top speed is probably in the range of meters per minute right now.”

Whatever obscenities Deadlock growled were muffled by his neck cables, the vibrations of his engine sending hot charge through damaged circuitry.

Combining pleasure and pain had always excited Ratchet before; and now was no exception. Even if he hadn’t been plugged into Ratchet’s frame there was no way Deadlock could miss it. He pulled back, red optics scanning Ratchet’s face, star-bright in the dim room.

“ _Now?_ ”

An old piece of Rodion slang, voice rougher than a bombed-out street and more intimate than any physical touch.

“If you...”

Ratchet was never allowed to finish that sentence.

Deadlock swallowed the rest of it and all the sounds that followed as his hands roamed aching plating, teasing out delicious waves of pain-edged pleasure and pleasure-flavoured pain that reduced Ratchet to a strutless heap of moaning metal in record time.

Somehow he got shifted around, legs parted and spread while Deadlock’s mouth left his, the other mech moving lower, his target obvious although he took his own sweet time in getting there.

He reached it.

This kiss was intimate, _obscene_.

Lipplates and long glossa doing things to Ratchet’s nodes that he had never experienced before. Pleasure took him in its jaws and shook him until he rattled in overload on the low bunk, Deadlock’s designation crackling into a screech of static underlaid by the Decepticon’s low laughter. Crimson light reflected from his thighs as Deadlock smirked up at him, licking his lips with obvious relish.

“J-just you wait, kid.” Ratchet gasped, cursing his vocaliser for not shaping the threat properly. His spark yearned towards the mech down there between his legs. “As soon as I’m up I’m gonna-”

Deadlock froze. His hands left Ratchet, rising to clutch at his helm as pain twisted his faceplates. Garnet optics locked on Ratchet, wide and scared. Ratchet’s spark froze. He pushed himself up on an elbow, reaching for his lover.

The berth rocked beneath Ratchet, the walls buckling inwards.

Heat and pressure slammed him into darkness and Ratchet knew no more.

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILER ALERT:  
> They're not dead. There will be a sequel (at some point)


End file.
